Your Hand in Mine
by Nakimochiku
Summary: Arthur only registered two facts. Francis was gone. and the car crash had ruined his life. oneshot, France x England, enjoy.


Your Hand in Mine

He only registered two facts, now. After everything that had happened. After all the pain, all the anxious waiting for a smile he would no longer see, after crying himself to sleep at night in a bed that used to smell like lilies and pomegranates, he only realized two things.

Francis was gone.

And the car crash had ruined his life.

Francis was not dead. Not technically. He lay on immaculate sheets, cerulean eyes shut, the lines of his face smoothed out. He looked like he was sleeping. He looked like just a kiss would wake him up, like in the fairy tales. Around him, machines beeped and pulsed, tracking brain waves and heart beats and blood pressures. He wanted to smash them. Francis was not dead.

But he may as well be.

Arthur was no longer able to stay by his side night and day. He had to return to work. Had to do whatever he could to stay on top of the hospital bills, had to find doctors that could help his husband, had to drown out the pain.

The pain was worst of all. The pain crippled him.

"It's been really hard here, without you." Francis never moved, never gave a sign that he was alive, that he was listening. Arthur just held his hand, studying pale fingers. They were pretty fingers, long and elegant and talented. He remembered those fingers buried in pastry dough. He remembered those fingers working quickly over the computer keyboard. He remembered those fingers all along his body driving him mad....

He remembered those fingers gripped tight around the steering wheel, white at the knuckles....

He remembered a lot of things that he didn't want to think about anymore.

He did not remember the crash in complete detail. He only remembered pain. He remembered yelling. He remembered sirens and flashes of light. He remembered begging for sleep. He remembered wondering, 'Francis, where is he?' Before that was gone too.

For the first few excruciating days, he sat by Francis's side. He memorized the way blonde hair curled around him like a halo, his arms limp at his sides, small cuts on his face stitched and bandaged. No matter what, Francis always managed to look beautiful.

He had cried. He had cried until he couldn't cry any more.

He had pleaded and begged with any divine power out there. Please. Please let him wake up. Don't do this to me. And even though it hurt, he had knelt by Francis's bedside, fingers gripping tight to a rosary. He wasn't catholic. Didn't believe in something so silly. But if he had to pray to a god out there, he would pray to the one Francis believed in.

And when praying didn't work, he cursed and raged.

What kind of god would allow something like this to happen?

Arthur snapped out of his reverie, watching the pale sleeping face, calm, unaware of the pain he suffered. He was lost, he was scared. He just wanted Francis back. He laid his head down on his solid chest, ignoring the smell of antiseptic where the smell of lilies was supposed to be. He clenched his eyes shut, breathing hard.

"It's so lonely without you."

_From behind him, Francis watched Arthur's small shoulders shake with the power of his sobs. Arthur was always crying. Even when there weren't tears, he was crying. "Arthur...." He murmured. Arthur never heard him. Never saw him. But he tried anyway. "Arthur." He touched his shoulder, surprised when Arthur flinched, turning to look right through him._

_He looked so horrible._

_His hand gripped the stiff pale one. Francis recognized it as his own. He couldn't stop Arthur from crying. "I'm so lonely. Come back."_

"_I'm right here. Arthur I'm right here!"_

The numbers before him were blurred together. He stared at them, not recognizing what he was supposed to do, his mind in a clouded haze of grief and weariness. He was tired. And it seeped into his bones. He felt fragile. He felt like just a touch could shake him apart.

"Hey there Artie! Up for a cup o' coffee?" Alfred's hand gripped his shoulder, clapping him on the back in a friendly manner. His grin was wide, eyes bright and happy. Arthur was jealous. Jealous that Alfred could be happy. Jealous that Alfred could smile and let the whole world know what he was thinking. Jealous that Alfred could be so open.

How could anyone be so happy when people were suffering?

"No thank you." He whispered, and turned back to staring at the numbers, going over them again and again but not taking anything in. He knew Alfred was about to insist, still smiling when Matthew pulled him away.

"Leave him alone." He hissed in a scolding manner, turning pitying eyes on him. "Didn't you hear about his husband?" They left for their coffee break, leaving him with numbers and tears that he didn't shed. They could pity him if they wanted.

It was all the same.

When he returned home, he slipped his coat off at the door, ignoring the empty space on the hook. He liked to pretend, sometimes, that Francis was out working late. He moved into the kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil, pulling left over mashed potatoes from the fridge.

Sometimes he liked to pretend it was just like when they had first gotten married. He had stayed at home, back then, between jobs. And he would put the kettle on in the same way, rock hard scones already cooling after being pulled from the oven. He pretended that Francis would burst through the kitchen door at any minute, and grin at him.

"Your disgusting scones again, petit lapin?" He would wrap his arms around his waist, lavish his neck in kisses, whisper sweet nothings in damnable French. Make love to him on the kitchen floor, hold him tight.

The whistle of the kettle woke him. He poured the tea into the cup, sipping it carefully. Warmth spread through him. He shut his eyes and tried to just breathe. The house was quiet and empty, deathly silence closing in on him as he was reminded that no. No, Francis would not walk through that door. Francis would not be upstairs waiting for him with a sly, inviting look in his eyes. Francis would not wake him up in the morning with a song, kiss him gentle on the mouth and whisper something that he never understood.

Bitterness landed on his tongue with the tea.

He moved through the living room, and looked at the record player. It stood silent, since the crash. It belonged to Francis. He needed to dispel the quiet. He needed to pretend like Francis was still there. He pulled out a record, placed the needle on it and listened as slow strains of Frank Sinatra leaked out.

_Fly me to the moon, so I can play among the stars._

He lay on the sofa and closed his eyes, focused. If he listened carefully, he could hear Francis rummaging about upstairs, singing along. There, his footsteps going around the edge of the bed, a pencil in his mouth as he thought. Pastries and recipes and incomes racing through his mind as he planned out his bakery. His footsteps again, towards the office so he could type up a report. His footsteps, coming down the stairs to tell him something –

The sound of crashing met his ears. Arthur sat strait up, glancing around the room. He got to his feet, looking at the ruined mess that used to be the record player in disbelief. "What the hell?" He mumbled. How could it have fallen? The table was not unstable, and the record player had stood on it for as long as he could remember.

He looked around the room again and shivered. Being alone in the silence terrified him.

_Tonight, Francis knew, Arthur would crawl into bed with one of his shirts. It would have been sprayed with his cologne. Arthur would hold the shirt to his nose and let out a shuddering breath, breathing in the cologne and cuddling the shirt closer to his body. He would pretend he was there beside him, holding him, warming him. But the shirt would never be enough. And his body would shake with the sobs he'd been holding all day. He would hold the shirt to his face and cry into it, his name sputtered out between gasps for air._

"_Arthur. Stop crying. Please stop crying." He lay beside him, his arms wrapped around his waist. There was no response this time. And Arthur kept right on sobbing. _

_How could he leave when he was like this?_

Arthur woke as he always had in the last few weeks. Slowly, sadly. The shirt was twisted and crumpled in his fingers, some places damp with his tears. He had not slept well that night, like many nights before. He had mourned his loss. His loneliness. He needed Francis by his side.

It was Saturday. He dressed the same way he woke up. Slowly, sadly. Francis was not there to tease him about his mismatching socks, or to carefully advise him on what shirt to wear with which pair of pants. There was no Francis to purr and kiss him. "You look very handsome today, petit lapin."

He would visit Francis at the hospital, hold his hand and try to remind himself that Francis was _there_. He was _alive_. If only he would wake up. If only he would hum calmly in that reassuring way, pet his hair. If only he could hear his voice, singing along with Frank Sinatra.

At the door, he pulled on his coat. Slowly, sadly. The autumn wind outside was brisk, stung his cheeks and left them rosy red. He loved autumn. They both had. Had walked hand in hand in it together. And no matter what, he could find beauty in autumn. Just like he could find beauty in Francis.

Francis who always looked perfect. Francis with his hair combed back, looking smart and gorgeous on their wedding day. Francis with his hair pulled into a messy bun, kissing him on the forehead, rolling out fondant to create roses for a cake. Francis with his hair mussed, sweat slicking his skin as they rutted together.

Francis still looked perfect, laying among the sheets. The only thing that could have added to him was his eyes open, sparkling and laughing and warm. The only thing that could have made him more beautiful was his name rolling off those lips. There was nothing more in the world that he wanted.

"Come back." Francis's hand was loose and chilled. The wedding ring on his finger glinted in the sunlight, a simple design with only a few diamonds. He kissed the back of that hand. He lay down on the sheets by Francis's hip, feeling his slight warmth and taking comfort in it. He studied the beeping machines. He followed the line on the heart monitor, watched it's steady jump.

Again, two facts were dragged into his mind, steeping his heart in despair.

Francis was gone.

The car crash had taken everything from him.

He hated the man who had driven into them while drunk. He didn't care that he was dead now, due to internal hemorrhaging of the brain. He didn't care that his wife had wept over his body, and he had been there to watch her. He had died and left behind people who cared for him.

But he had ruined Arthur's life in the process.

For that wife, there was no sitting and hoping. Her husband was dead. It was a fact. She would mourn. She would go through the same motions he was, putting on his favorite meal, setting out an open bottle of beer as though one day he would walk through the door. And then she would heal.

For him, there was no such thing. He would go through an endless cycle, as though Francis was dead. And then return to his bed side where he still drew breath but couldn't hold him or kiss him or love him. He would return to his bed side where he would hope, and pray, and beg for a sign of life. He would not heal. He would never heal, so long as Francis was asleep.

He sighed deeply, resting his eyes. Below, the sounds of the city carried on, the whole world passing him by. He may as well be sleeping, just like Francis. He may as well be dreaming.

He jumped when the window smashed, cold air leaking in through the hole in the glass. He went to the window, confused, burying his fear. Three storeys down, the vase that had been filled with roses lay shattered on the ground, the roses themselves were strewn about like an elaborate blood splatter.

How the hell had the vase flown from the corner of the room to the window? Whatever answers that flitted through his mind left him shaken, glancing everywhere. But of course he was just being silly.

He ignored the flickers of yelling that seemed to float on the wind whistling through the hole in the window.

"_Here, Arthur! I'm right here! Look at me! I'm here!"_ _Francis screamed until he couldn't scream anymore. Arthur could feel him. He knew he could. His eyes told him. The way he shivered and flinched from his touch told him. But Arthur refused to see. Didn't want to see. If he had to, he would make him see. If nothing else, he wanted Arthur to know that he was there. He was with him._

_He followed Arthur, threw things to gain his attention, screamed, touched him. Arthur was just very good at pretending there was nothing wrong, as though he didn't feel him. As though he didn't know he was there._

_So Francis did the last thing he could think of. He wrote Arthur a letter. He couldn't convey it properly, but he managed Arthur's name and tacked it on the mirror. Behind him, on the bed, Arthur slept fitfully, consumed with nightmares of the crash. He cried out his name, voice near a wail, tugging the shirt to him for comfort._

_Francis smiled, and sat near him, touching his hair. "It's alright, petit lapin. I'm right here."_

Arthur, d n't c y.

I H re. D n't c y.

I'm w th yu.

I'm h re.

Fr nc s

Arthur sat shelled shocked, watching the paper like it would suddenly start floating and talking to him. Had he somehow gotten up in the middle of the night to write this? Was he going mad? He shook his head desperately. Crumpling the note and tossing it in the wastebasket, he went down stairs to do Sunday chores.

He didn't see the note pick itself out of the waste basket and unfold itself before tacking itself back onto the mirror. He drifted through the house in a daze, avoiding places that Francis loved. His chair by the window, his office, his side of the closet. He ironed his slacks and ignored the creases that were in the wrong place.

Francis had always ironed his clothes for him.

He had taken to wearing Francis's shirts on sundays. The sleeves were too long for him, the white fabric crinkled. He didn't care. It gave him a piece of Francis to keep with him. The shirt was never enough. But it was all he had.

He froze as he walked past the mirror. The note, unfolded, was back on it, the same slur of words stared back at him. No. No, no, no, no, no! Anymore of this and he would go insane! No more smashing windows and vases flying into walls. No more phantom touches. No more screaming when it was quiet. No more! He couldn't handle it.

He snatched the note off the mirror and tore it to pieces. "Alright already!" He slumped onto the bed heavily and sobbed into his hands. "Alright! I'm listening. What do you want? Why are you tormenting me?" He had spent a long time studying ghosts. He could sense them, see them, hear them. And he knew that he was being haunted.

He closed his eyes and listened. A hand was on his shoulder, sliding up his neck, touching his lips. His eyes opened wide. "Francis?"

"_Yes, Petit Lapin. I'm right here." He smiled. He wasn't sure if Arthur could see it. Arthur had never explained the full nature of his sight. But Arthur recognized him, so he felt like smiling. Arthur didn't smile though._

_Tears slipped from emerald eyes, widened in sorrow and painful realization. "If you're here than that means you must be dying." He lowered his head to his knees and took a few shaky breaths to steady himself, sniffling quietly._

"_No, petit lapin! Never! How could I leave you in this world by yourself? Never!" Francis fell to his knees before him, kissing the top of his blonde head. "I wouldn't ever leave you. Didn't I promise you that?"_

_His only replies were more heart wrenching sobs._

He had cried himself to sleep, and woke up a little early on Monday morning. The sun started it's slow crawl over the horizon, and reminded him that it was just another day without Francis. Just another day of staring at meaningless numbers. Another day of pitiful glances directed at him when they thought he didn't notice. Just another worthless day.

Somewhere through the haze of his depression, the phone rang. "Hello?" He whispered. He hoped it wasn't his mother. She had begged him to move in with her after the crash, hadn't understood that he couldn't just leave Francis. Not while he was still alive. She didn't understand. She'd never liked Francis anyway.

"Yes, this is St. Mercy General Hospital calling for Arthur Kirkland in the case of his husband. The doctor has requested you come in this morning, if you have time." Arthur sat in silence dumbly for a moment, panic flooding through his body and freezing him. "Sir?"

"Yes, I'm available."

Francis looked the same, unchanging, peacefully asleep. The doctor with his average brown eyes and average brown hair, looked the same. His smile was fixed and polite, worn like a mask. Arthur stared back at Francis, his tie loose around his neck, his fingers frozen stiff from the cold. He didn't use cars anymore.

"Francis is currently in what is called a mild coma. But, he's been in it for nearly 2 months now. The longer a patient is in a coma, the lower their chances of recovery, if and when they wake up. Mr. Kirkland, you're going to have to face the fact that your husband might not wake up."

Arthur didn't move his eyes from the still face. Any other words that the doctor said slipped by him. He would not face it. Could not. No one could ask him to face such a thing. He had already torn himself to pieces. He had already shattered himself over and over again, mindless in his agony. He had _prayed_, for god's sake.

No one could ask him to think about Francis not waking up.

"Mr. Kirkland?" Arthur looked up, past the smile to see the pity in average eyes that saw only sadness.

"He'll wake up." And he left. He had nothing to base the statement on. No evidence of it's truth. Nothing but gut instinct and basic pride. But there was nothing more he could do. The only thing left for him was sickening hope. If nothing else. He had to believe.

It weighed heavily on his mind. Inside of him, his belief wavered. What would be left of him, if Francis didn't wake up? Would he give in? Would he crumble? How could he pick up the pieces and carry on without him? How could he walk back into their home, sleep in the same bed, move on in the same way? How could he walk through the streets where he and Francis held hands? How could he live and smile?

How could he heal?

_Eyelids fluttered, quickly, then stilled. It was too fast a movement to register. He had to wake up._

"H-how've you been?" Matthew hovered behind him, fiddling nervously with his pen. He'd already sent Arthur and Francis bouquet after bouquet, apologized time and again. But it's the first time he had actually asked him how he was, despite the obvious answer. While Arthur appreciated the sentiment, he just wanted quiet.

"I'm alright." He hi-lighted a column of numbers with a green marker, considering the conversation dropped. But Matthew continued to stand behind him, the clicking of his pen irritating.

"I was reading up in different self help books, and one of them said –..." Matthew didn't get a chance to continue as Arthur whirled around to face him, standing and drawing himself to his full height, even though he was several inches shorter than Matthew.

"Listen very closely." He whispered lowly in a threatening tone. "I like you. But I don't need your so called help. And I need your pity less. Leave me alone." Matthew was left sputtering in shock, his lip trembled to show he was close to tears, and if he had sobbed out 'I only wanted to help!' Arthur wouldn't have been surprised. Arthur turned around and sat back down, listening with no small satisfaction to Matthew's sniffles.

Alfred came to the rescue, wrapping his arms around Matthew's shoulders and pulling him away. "Yo, Artie. You're a douche, but you're still invited to coffee." Salt in an open wound.

Arthur didn't reply, instead glaring at the numbers. He did not want their pity. There was nothing they could do to make him happy. Their own energy, their life, just reminded him of all the reasons he had to sink deeper into his whirling spiral of melancholy.

He did not want to drink coffee with them and smile at them like everything was okay. Everything was not okay. Everything would never be okay. Not so long as Francis was asleep.

_His limbs were heavy, his veins filled with cement. He waded through the viscous ocean of his own dream world, reaching for the slivers of light near the surface. Francis cursed as one escaped his grasp. Beyond, inside the light, he could hear someone calling his name. Crying it. Screaming it._

"_I'm coming." But he didn't know who he was assuring, so kept moving. But soon he was tired. Too tired to travel any further upwards. Slowly, gently, struggling with the weight of his own body, he sank downwards._

The air was getting colder, winter fast approaching. Arthur pulled on his bunny rabbit mittens, stared at them. He had made the gloves himself just two years ago. Francis had a matching pair. And though he called him hideous, he had worn them all winter, even though he much preferred soft Italian leather.

Around him, the street was covered in people, rushing about from place to place. He felt dead among them. No one. Just a blank face. He wished again that he could be sleeping. He may as well be. Perhaps sleeping was the solution after all. There was nothing left for him in the world, nothing left that he desperately needed to keep hold of.

He stopped at the friendly moss green door of his favorite restaurant. They had gone there together as an anniversary gift. He remembered blushing profusely as Francis had licked a dot of whipped cream from his cheek, eyes half lidded and darkened in a look he knew well.

"Delicious." He had mumbled, licking his lips as though savoring a particularly enjoyable meal. Arthur's eyes lowered. Making eye contact with tigers was dangerous.

"Yes it is rather yummy isn't it?" He used his spoon to gesture to the bowl, now half empty. Francis gave him his soft breathy chuckle, the laugh he used while seducing. And he could almost feel it against his skin. Francis's eyes were hot, burned through him.

"I wasn't talking about the food, Petit Lapin." Which of course had inspired Francis to cover him in whip cream later as he had his way with him on the living room floor. He gasped, his skin flushed and sensitive, the cream a cool contrast against it and _ah!_ Francis had spread it over his arousal, smirked evilly and taken it into his mouth, whipped cream at the corner of his lips as he bobbed his head and sucked. He licked it away, and Arthur had to force his blurry eyes to meet those dark blue ones.

"Like I said, delicious."

Arthur shook himself out of the memory, moving away from the restaurant with heavy steps. This entire city was too painful. The bookstore where Francis had purchased him last minute gifts, the little club they had met each other in.

He was tempted to go inside, just to see what it was like again, just to drown in memories of himself and the hot blonde stranger who had said nothing but a string of French and 'I am new to this country.' And they had danced all night, grinding and rocking and whispering challenges in each other's ear. _"I bet you couldn't make me scream."_ He had growled with a devious grin, watched the other's eyes turn hungry, predatory.

Who would break first? Who would submit? In the end they had wandered back to Arthur's apartment, tearing each other's clothes off before they were even through the front door. Touching each other desperately, bodies sliding together, small groans escaping them as the kissed. Tongue and teeth and fire.

He remembered Francis had left him early that morning. Had made him breakfast with what he had in the house, and left the address of the grand opening of a café on Main Street.

He snorted to think that their meeting had been so cliche. After all, at first they couldn't stand each other. Had argued all day, but once they were alone together couldn't have enough. Tears stung his eyes even as he smiled. They really were some sort of text book romance. Thinking about the happiness they had only made the sky seem darker.

He paused at a bus stop, frowning at the things around him. Farther down the street was the theater, closed until it's next major attraction came along. Arthur remembered taking Francis there for his birthday. Remembered the look of sheer bliss as he watched the talented dancers on stage. And while Arthur had never appreciated the fine art of ballet, watching Francis's face light up had been so worth it. Had been worth standing in line for hours on end, had been worth fighting at the kiosk. That smile he gave him made it all worth it. "Thank you Petit Lapin."

Defeated, Arthur rested his head in his hands as he sat on the stone bench in the park, scuffing the dried leaves beneath his shoes. This city. The city would destroy him. If... if Francis were to die. If he were to never wake up, and leave Arthur all alone even though they had promised to stay together forever, how would he carry on in this city? Just the weight of wondering dragged at his shoulders. Just the weight of wondering pressed his soul. He knew he would become a wraith. Walking, breathing but not living. Not when he was reminded constantly of Francis.

And if he stayed in this city, that wraith would disappear too. This city had Francis written all over it. He couldn't stand living here, if Francis were to leave. Not if he would be reminded over and over again of what they had. He wouldn't be able to carry on and pretend everything was alright and that he hadn't lost the best thing that had ever happened to him.

This city would become Francis. He would come to need it, crave each memory, each foot step on the sidewalk. And he just couldn't do that to himself. All that would remain of Francis would be those times spent in the movie theater, the photo booth they had gone in sometime on their third date. No. He wouldn't torture himself like that. Not when losing Francis was already enough to shatter him.

Francis would wake up. He had to hold on firmly to that hope. But the problem with hope was that he wanted to hold on, had to hold on so tight until he broke his own fingers. Hope was cruel. Hope was heartless. Hope left him with a pit in his stomach, and only a small glimmer of light at the bottom. Hope was not poetic.

Hope left craters. And when hope drifted away, off to torment some other poor soul, he would be left damaged. Hope would do him no good.

But it was all he had left.

"_Arthur." The name rolled off his tongue, thick and sticky and warm. Sweet. Arthur. He didn't know who Arthur was. Just knew he was crying. And maybe, if he could just get there. To where Arthur was. If he could just hold on to him, tell him that he was there. He was alive. He would keep him safe._

_He was stronger this time, able to swim faster, up through the layers of his subconscious where there was light, and warmth, and the smell of heather and peppermint. "Arthur, wait for me. I'm coming." But he was still too weak, unable the break through any more layers, left wondering, waiting. Would Arthur come? Would he be as sweet as his name? He prayed to wake up._

_Arthur needed him._

La Fée Verte seemed to glow through the mist. Arthur thought it was a stupid name, stupider still because the café had previously had a nice respectable name to go with her appearance. Then Francis met him and changed it.

Outside, Elizaveta sat on the front step, the sign 'on break' written on a piece of paper taped to the glass of the door behind her. A wisp of smoke floated from the cigarette between her fingers dusted with flour. She looked at him, and gave him her bright smile. Arthur took the invitation and stood next to her, able to ignore the tangy smoky smell.

"I thought you quit." He whispered. She glanced at him and laughed softly, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke out from between her glossed lips. Her smile, of course was knowing. She understood why he had come.

After all, Francis was her boss. Her friend. Her teacher. Her ally in a cruel world. Francis was gracious and beautiful and courteous, all sly crocodile smiles and kisses. Francis was a wonderful man. And she had to correct herself. Is a wonderful man. He's not dead. Not yet. And that's why Arthur was there, lost and wandering.

"Sit with me. I wanna tell you something." She was not friends with Arthur. Not really. But her smile is welcoming, and Arthur sat, finding no other alternative. She took a long moment before she spoke, tapping out the ash of her cigarette on the sidewalk.

In reality smoking was a habit she had picked up as a teenager, had dropped as an adult. But after Francis fell into that coma, she found that she needed the distraction, the stress relief. Arthur stared at the street, watching cars speed by. They all burred together.

"You know. Francis had the habit of shaking out his pastry dough, before he kneaded it. Said it made it light and fluffy." Elizaveta handed over the information slowly. Arthur came here to be with Francis, came to find a piece of him to carry around with him, to entangle their hearts, even if it was killing him. Arthur turned to look at her, to see her properly, to take in her hastily tied reddish hair, the icing smeared on her cheeks.

For a moment she reminded him of Francis at his most beautiful. When he was in the kitchen of La Fée Verte, making something delicious, humming soft tunes under his breath. Elizaveta nodded and continued when she took another drag from the cigarette.

"And he always put melted dark chocolate in his coffee, even when the customers asked for it black. Said that it heightened one's senses to a plane of sheer bliss." She smiled fondly as she said that, looking upwards at the grey sky, ignoring the wind that tore her hair free of her ponytail. "And you know, last Christmas, he was in such a rush. 'What do these people matter when my Petit Lapin is waiting for me? I promised him!' He said, and he closed up shop extra early. But that was the day of the big snow storm."

Arthur remembered. Remembered Francis bursting through the front door, protecting a strawberry shortcake from the snow. The cake itself wasn't very seasonal, but it was heart shaped, and even though it had made Arthur feel warm and fuzzy inside, he had rejected it. "You're late!" He said. And he wasn't angry that he was late and had broken his promise. He was late and had not called and had worried Arthur sick.

"He said no matter how he tried to placate you, you just got angrier, and angrier, until he had his wicked way with you on the sofa." She laughed softly, remembered his devilish grin as he said that, still sporting a black eye the morning after. But she also remembered the pure love that shone through, had wondered to herself how anyone like Francis could love so purely.

Arthur blushed, frustrated that Francis had spoken of those kinds of things to anyone. But he too could remember Francis's smile when he got home and found half of the strawberry shortcake gone. He would never admit that he had hardly touched it, merely brought it to work where Alfred nearly swallowed it whole. He didn't have the heart to tell Francis so when he kissed him full on the mouth and said "I knew you would like it. Strawberry shortcake is your favorite after all."

He felt a stab of guilt, scrubbing at the tears that gathered at his eyes, he bent over his knees. Elizaveta gave him a concerned look, stubbing out her cigarette. She patted his back, her hands smaller, softer than Francis's.

"It hurts to think about him." He admitted, breathing hard. She cooed, hugging him awkwardly until he was stoic again, as though he had not let slip another ounce of his emotions. As though no one else knew that he was tormented inside. But she knew. And somehow he was grateful for that.

"Oh of course it's going to hurt. But he's not dead. He's alive. And he's strong. We just have to hold on to our hope."

"Hope again." He scoffed, but said nothing more on her words. They were true. No matter what, Francis never, ever went down without a fight. And if he had to go down, he went down with the last laugh. Francis was strong. Arthur had to believe that.

They lapsed into silence, while Elizaveta lit another cigarette. "How are things going here?" He asked, because there was nothing else he could say. Elizaveta shrugged, heaving herself up. Arthur did the same. She stared at him long and hard, matronly and compassionate. There was no pity. No pity because she felt what he felt, on some extent. She had lost more than just her boss. She had lost her friend.

"You need to stop lying to yourself. You're scared of what you'll see, but you never know until you see it. Go to him." With one last motherly smile, she stepped inside of the café, leaving her stubbed out cigarettes on the sidewalk.

Arthur walked away, towards the hospital. He felt exposed, invaded, and for once, understood.

Hope, he told himself, was a mistress who gave, and took away.

_Closer now. Closer to the surface. This time when he swam through the liquid, it was not as thick._ _The light was closer, flowing over his fingers tips, close enough for him to grasp, but always evading. His eyelids fluttered. He could feel them, in a vague sense._

_Arthur. The sweet taste of the name kept him going. There was someone who needed him. Some one who cried that he was all alone. And Francis couldn't stand for that. Not when he was right here, able to love._

_He was pushed back under the waves of sleep, too tired to continue fighting. Too tired to do anything but sink. Arthur. Arthur. Next time, he would awake for him. Next time, he would get his eyes open, and look at Arthur, and taste his lips to see if they were just as sweet. But for the moment, he slept deeply._

Francis was still the same. He did not stir. The only things that assured him of his life were the jagged lines of the heart monitor, and the regular beeps of the pulse monitor. Arthur sighed deeply. He was tired. Bone weary. He collapsed into the chair near the bed, grasping Francis's frail hand.

Such a beautiful hand. He missed the way those fingers had combed through his hair. He missed the way those fingers had brushed his face. He missed away those fingers would dig in and find all the knots between his shoulder blades.

He missed Francis's kiss in the morning, his purring hum of satisfaction when they finished making love, the dinner he left out for Arthur when he would be working late. The love letters he sent him every so often. The tooth paste left uncapped after Francis used it. The sight of him in a frilly apron with nothing underneath, his smile dangerous as he continued to iron as though nothing were wrong, or even remotely erotic. He missed his loud singing when he went on road trips. Missed the guitar that used to play love ballads for him but now stood silent in the corner.

"I miss _you_." He admitted it. No matter what else he had said. It's lonely. Or, come back. He had never told Francis that he missed him. That he just wanted him back because he missed him and all his little quirks. Missed the sunshine that had been a part of his life, before the accident.

The accident that took away everything.

He remembered being dressed up for the opera that night. Francis practically sang in joy. They were always so busy. There was always a last minute project to finish, always a report that really couldn't wait. They only spent time alone together at home. But now they would be going to the opera! He nearly leapt with his excitement.

Arthur had just smiled crookedly, and kept smiling even on the way home. They had a wonderful time, enjoyed themselves and – "Francis! Look out!" Fingers, white at the knuckles, as they gripped the steering wheel and twisted.

He shook his head. "I miss you. I miss you, I miss you." Gently, he pressed a kiss against Francis's slack mouth and sighed. It had been too long since he had tasted Francis's lips. Too long. He pulled away, studied the beautiful face. It was a far cry from when he had first been admitted to the hospital. There were almost no scars left. He nuzzled Francis's chest. "I miss you."

_There! The light was closer. He had to swim. This time, he had to make it. This time, he had to break through. The sweet taste was already on his tongue. Wake up wake up wake up! He pushed through the oceans of dreams, grasping tight to the glimmer of light in his fist._

_Arthur. Arthur. Arthur. It was his mantra. Arthur was sweet. Arthur cried, and he just couldn't stand for that. Couldn't let that happen. He had made a promise. And he didn't care that he didn't remember it. Just held on tight to that knowledge, and Arthur's name. Arthur's taste._

_He stirred, heavy, searching. Arthur._

Below him, the chest that had only been rising and falling slightly rattled with a large, rasping breath. Arthur looked up in awe. He dare not believe his eyes. He dare not blink and miss anything. But it had to be the truth, because the alarms were going off to warn the nurses.

Blue eyes cracked open painfully slowly. Gorgeous blue eyes. He had missed them. Dear god, how he had missed every inch of him. His eyes were blurry with sleep and confusion, looking around the sterile room before landing on him. His mouth worked, but no words came out.

Arthur didn't care. He was awake. He was alive. He was there. And hope had left him one of the privileged few without bruises. "Francis!" he cried, wrapping his arms around Francis, even as the nurses rushed in to stabilized their patient. "I missed you. I was so lonely." He was close to tears, knew it but for once didn't care. Damn his pride to hell.

Francis frowned, through the blank fog of his mind, a word stood out, and nothing besides it. He let his free hand rest on top of the shaggy blonde locks and smiled. Sweet.


End file.
